Perhaps the idea of a home isn’t always a place that we’re born into. Perhaps it could be a place where we find ourselves and to not be told that we’ve been found. Home could be far away from a certain familiarity in the conventional sense of the term, yet is nevertheless reminiscent of our favorite feelings, or feelings we’ve long forgotten. It’s a wonderful place to finally be at.

Home is a place in time where one’s heart would slow dance in the gentle showers of the evening. The only place in time where words carry emotion and colourful images instead of simply a dry context. It’s the only place where meaning is felt and not simply implied. It’s the only place where every sound and colour is inviting of the deepest attention. It’s the only place where the softest sentiments blossom.

It’s a little gift to treasure. It’s the only place where you could be honest with yourself. It’s the only place wonderful enough to stay at, as long as memory is worth remembering.

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